


Comforter of Night

by Ololon



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Angst, M/M, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-27
Updated: 2012-08-27
Packaged: 2017-11-13 00:46:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/497511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ololon/pseuds/Ololon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary: Set after the season 2 episode 'The Wire'. Things haven't been quite the same ever since...Julian is still struggling to make sense of what Garak said during his illness, and Garak can't quite pretend it didn't happen. It's both G and B POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Comforter of Night

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: Introductory and end pretentious quotes are from William Blake. Quotes in text are from the episode. Everybody has to write one post-Wire fic, right? :) This is mine, which didn't turn out nearly how I was expecting; be warned it's both slushy and angsty, and barely scrapes the PG-13 rating, I should think. Originally posted to the Garak/Bashir yahoo mail group June 2006 (yikes I’m old!), very modestly re-edited and re-posted here.
> 
> Disclaimers: They don't belong to me, I can't afford them.

_I thought Love livd in the hot sun shine_

_But O he lives in the Moony light_

_I thought to find Love in the heat of day_

_But sweet Love is the Comforter of Night_

 - William Bond (William Blake).

Dr Bashir sipped his hot chocolate without much enthusiasm and, resigning himself to the inevitable, put his book down and stared off into the far distance, out the window.

 

It was all Garak’s fault. The amount of sleep Bashir had lost over that man in the past fortnight, he ought to start charging him in latinum.Yes, it was all Garak’s fault, and Jadzia’s – why, if _he_ hadn’t inconsiderately nearly died, and if _she_ hadn’t so irritatingly forced him to confront his own feelings regarding said man, then he wouldn’t have had to realise what a tangled mess those feelings were in. He indulged himself with a melodramatic sigh. Well, he could sort those feelings out well enough, and had been, this past week or so, a week of waking up at 3:30 every bloody night and pacing sleeplessly about the promenade. It was _Garak’s_ feelings that he was having such trouble trying to puzzle out, and until he could do that, he couldn’t know how to act, or if he should at all.

 

His mind kept coming back to Garak’s ‘confessions’ to him (except in even more distracted moments when, absurdly, it wanted to remind him how utterly magnificent – how _powerful –_ Garak had looked when he’d thrown that table over – possibly at – him). He really wished there were someone he could talk this over with, but he could hardly do so without breaching confidentiality, and Garak would not be impressed by that. And, in a way, he didn’t want to. He wanted to figure this one out for himself. He felt he’d come a long way since arriving here, and in the past couple of weeks he had evidenced his maturity by maintaining his professionalism in the face of Garak’s evasiveness and downright hostility. He’d stood up to _Odo,_ for god’s sake! He was secretly rather proud of himself for that. Hell, he’d even stood up to Tain and lived to tell the tale. Besides, this one, was personal.

 

That was the problem, of course. He’d ignored Garak’s insults, his contempt, and his sheer, utter uncooperativeness because that was the professional thing to do. He had enough basic psych training to know that this was quite a common and classic reaction; a simple lashing-out at a convenient target when one was in pain, and afraid, especially in the face of probable death. He could accept that, although it had wounded anyway, and he remained concerned about Garak’s mental state. Clearly, he was not happy (understatement), probably never would be with his life such as it was. _And I was his right hand, my future was limitless, until I threw it all away…_ He still felt he was missing something. And wasn’t a hallmark of maturity knowing when to seek a wiser head than your own? He glanced at the chronometer. It still wasn’t that late; Jadzia would be coming off her shift. Maybe he’d go talk to her after all.

 

“So what you’re really saying is,” Jadzia summed up, in response to his somewhat incoherent and necessarily vague account, “You know you shouldn’t take it personally, but you just can’t help taking it personally.”

 

“Well, yes. I mean, what if part of him really meant those things about me?”

 

“Would it matter?” Jadzia asked, “Do you really care that much what he thinks about you?”

 

“No – yes, well I – dammit, Dax, I _am_ his friend. I do care what he thinks about me.” She raised an eyebrow. He looked away. “I care about what he feels for me,” muttering, “I _am_ his friend.”

 

“I know that Julian,” she said warmly, sympathetically.

 

“You knew that when I came here to see your sick plant,” he accused. Dax just looked innocent. He exhaled heavily. “How is your plant anyway?”

 

“Fine, apparently. How’s Garak?”

 

“Fine. Apparently.” Dax shifted slightly.

 

“In a way,” she said at last, “I think you should take it personally.” He gave her a confsued look. “When Emony’s mother died of a terminal illness, she reacted in much the same way as Garak; well, minus the storytelling. She took it all out on Emony. You know, I remember her as a lovely, kind woman, and she and Emony were very close; but she was _horrible_ to her, until she became more reconciled to her illness.

 

Emony could never understand it at first – oh, it’s easy enough to know why she would lash out; every wounded animal snarls when it’s in pain and people aren’t much different – but she never comprehended at the time why she herself was the target, instead of someone her mother wasn’t so close to. Later, after her death, she came to realise that it was _because_ she had such a deep bond with her that her mother attacked her. When you’re that desperate, you’re also very frightened and alone even if you have support. You’re selfish enough to want someone else to suffer, and desperate enough to make them hurt. It gives you back some of the control you feel you’ve lost. But at the same time you’re also terrified of losing the people who care for you. Emony always told her children that you end up hurting the person you care for the most, because you know they won’t abandon you. You attack the one person you know will stay with you regardless, the one person who will forgive you for it, even if they don’t understand.” Julian stared at her.

 

“Jadzia, you’re a genius.”

 

“I’m not necessarily saying Garak quite feels this way,” she cautioned him, “I don’t know exactly what he said to you, but I don’t think he would have let himself be treated by you – more, let you see him like that – if you hadn’t somehow proved you wouldn’t leave him, no matter what.”

 

Bashir went back to his quarters, mind awhirl. He was reassessing everything Garak had said. Jadzia had lifted his hopes for the first time in days, and he was sure there was at least a grain of truth in what she had said. As for what Garak had said…he still had a feeling that there was something very obvious that was staring him in the face, but it wouldn’t quite come to him. Something about Garak’s tall tales; something there he was missing. _My dear doctor, they’re **all** true. _ Of course they are Garak. With that wry thought, he finally called it a night and went back to bed, only to wake up, cursing, at half three again, feeling as though the explanation was right at the edge of his dream, but in reality no nearer to an answer. Damn the man anyway!

 

Their lunches, Garak reflected, part ruefully, part speculatively, had not been quite the same. Very nearly so, to be sure, superficially so, certainly, but exactly so; no, not quite. He allowed himself an indulgent sigh. And things had been progressing so nicely too, it was just typical that a near-death experience had come along and ruin everything.

 

After his self-introduction to the doctor, their weekly lunches had moved naturally from an initial slight awkwardness towards first informality, then comfortable familiarity and even friendliness, and, despite Julian’s half-teasing obsession with his apparently espionage-laden past, he could tell that the young man genuinely enjoyed being him. Then there was that quite frankly delightful few days investigating the war orphan incident; never mind a bite on the hand being worth it to save a boy’s life, it was certainly worth it to play at sleuthing with the good doctor. He recalled, fondly, the look Julian had given him when he’d caught Dukat out in front of everybody; not seeking approval, no, _knowing_ that he’d already got it. And he’d looked _quite_ adorable when Garak had impulsively broken into his room and woken him up in the middle of the night.

 

It was clear now that he had hurt Julian’s feelings, because he was trying so hard to be normal; it was equally clear Julian knew he had no real cause to have hurt feelings. Clearly, there was some sort of processing going on in the young man’s mind, and Garak didn’t like it one little bit. The doctor was no fool, no matter how guileless he might appear. Even now, reflecting on the spectacle he had made of himself made him cringe inwardly – well, no, it wasn’t that exactly – it was the awful, confessional way he’d spun out his every vulnerability, spreading them out to be trampled upon. And yet, the only reason that he’d let himself do that was because he _knew_ they wouldn’t be trampled on. Well, perhaps not the only reason. _Nobody likes an audience for their suffering, but everybody wants a witness._ Tain had told him that, once. And he’d got one. Witness, judge and jury in one; a witness to his untruths, a jury that found him guiltless, and a judge that set him free.

 

It disturbed him; he had detested himself as he did it, as the spiteful words poured from his mouth, even as he couldn’t stop himself from doing it, and he’d covered it by making out that it was Bashir he detested instead of himself. And yet…it also gave him a modicum of hope, which twice disturbed him. No, thrice disturbed; the man that had thrown a table over in incoherent fury at his own impotence (he winced; how very melodramatic and childish. How very….Klingon!) was not the same man who had begun his exile here. Slowly and subtly, surely, he was changing, and it was more than mere adaptation. Changing, when he never thought he would. Well, all men thought that in the self-assurance of youth, he supposed, and woke up sometime around middle-age thinking, in a bemused, dazed sort of terror, ‘What happened?’ He could smile at the thought, but he didn’t really believe it. This was altogether something else.

 

At least he was rid of the implant – and so far resisting the temptation to snap sarcastic and oh-so-horrifyingly candid comments to Julian’s occasional, diffident inquiries. (‘So, how have you been this week Garak?’ ‘Why, self-indulgent and maudlin thank you doctor! And yourself?’ Or worse: ‘How’s the tailoring business? Keeping you occupied, I trust?’ ‘Oh, it’s been rather slow, but when not occupied by stitching I’ve been happily pre-occupied by wondering if losing the implant will reverse the exotic taste for masochism I acquired at the delicate persuasion of its neural embrace.’). He mentally winced again. He’d always been careful, but Bashir must have wondered ( _professionally_ wondered, a sardonic voice prodded him) about the origin of a few unusual scars on his body.

 

“Hello Garak,” a cheerful voice greeted him, and he jerked out of his reverie. Grief, on top of it all, he was getting _sloppy_. If that didn’t take the biscuit, as the doctor would say, incomprehensibly. Bashir smiled at him, placing his tray on the table and sitting down. “Sorry I’m late. Quark had another grotesque medical emergency involving his ears.” Garak made a face.

 

“Please doctor, some of us _are_ eating.”

 

“Yes, and I noticed that pained expression on your face just now,” Julian said, oh-so-casually, “Which I do hope wasn’t in response to the plomek soup, since I’m having it too.” Garak assumed his best smile.

 

“Not at all, I just remembered that I’d forgotten to put in a rather urgent order for some bolts of Gallipidan homespun. Never mind, I can do it this afternoon and they probably won’t notice.” He made an effort to concentrate on his food and what Julian was prattling about Prelok. And what was worse, he added silently to his depressing mental tally of his self-deterioration, was that lately the sort of everyday lying he could have done in his sleep was beginning to feel like old hat and just too much effort to be bothered with.

 

Julian sat bolt upright in the middle of his bed, then ran a hand over his face, groggily.

 

“Computer, what time is it?” he muttered.

 

“The time is 03 hundred 30 hours.”

 

“This is the _limit_!” he exclaimed to himself, cross beyond compare. First thing in the morning he was dropping an invoice round to the tailor shop.

Item #1: 43 hours of sleep at 2 slips of latinum an hour.

Item #2: minor uniform scuffle damage, 3 slips latinum.

Item #3: loss of productivity due to worry and sleep deprivation: 5 bars.

Item #4: an _incredibly_ hot, if somewhat improbable, dream involving a certain tailor and some bolts of Gallipidan homespun (he didn’t even know what that was)….well, hmm, perhaps, in all fairness, he owed the money back for that one. Phew!

 

It was all so annoying. He knew he’d been skittish when they first met, and Garak’s mildly flirtatious comments had always been directed half in a teasing, half in a wary, way. Yet lately, the game had shifted slightly. Garak had teased more obviously, almost self-mockingly, knowing, he was sure of it, that he would pick up on it. And he’d played along, he couldn’t deny it. Things had been going so well; when they’d gone to find out what happened to that orphan boy Rugal, Garak had been so clearly proud of him, clearly affectionate, not to mention _blatantly_ brushing up at him at every flimsy excuse, such as whilst fixing computers – to say nothing of breaking into his bedroom clearly for the sheer hell of it. Or to see him in bed.

 

This cautious dance had both delighted and intrigued him. So different from any other courtship he’d had (was that actually what it was?) which had usually taken the form of ‘Will you have dinner with me?’ then seeing where it got him. And not the standard Cardassian approach either, he suspected. And why? It wasn’t as though he weren’t interested, and it wasn’t as though even if he weren’t, he’d sacrifice the friendship…but he hadn’t, he had realised belatedly, even admitted the existence of the friendship until he’d been rudely confronted with it. He’d gone along treating everything as though it wasn’t quite real, didn’t quite count, just a game…until he’d nearly lost it. And Garak did _so_ hate not being in control of a situation ( _that_ was typically Cardassian, if anything was, or maybe just typical of a certain type of male).

 

Now he was stuck, because if he made a more definite move now, Garak would probably misinterpret it (possibly deliberately) as pity, or, at least, a reaction to his, Garak’s, weakness. Damn, would he ever get any rest over this? He supposed he could try patience, but didn’t like the idea that this might come across as indifference. Lately, he’d been entertaining all sorts of improbable scenarios. Like contracting some mysterious virus that induced feverish and surprisingly poetic confessions in response to the appropriate person being nearby – oh, but he wasn’t much of a liar! Perhaps he’d just have to go for a frank admission. And it might make Garak feel as if he had the upper hand. Hell, sometimes if he wondered if the man was half as evasive and distrustful as he appeared, and was just more insecure than he wanted to let on. His thoughts circled back to the things Garak had said during his illness once again. He just couldn’t let go of it.

 

He flopped back on the bed with a heavy thump. Now he’d never get back to sleep, and tomorrow evening he’d promised to go to Ensign Parrow’s birthday party, which promised a late, drunken night. He was going to bill Garak for all this, he really was….

 

Garak paused on the promenade on his way back to his quarters and glanced down. It was late; Ensign Parrow’s party was winding down, and there were only isolated groups of people quietly chatting, and couples making their farewells and leaving together. He detested how, as one of those long-term singletons pitied by smug couples, he pettily detested that particular sight. And there was Julian, leaning against the bar with a half, if not entirely forgotten drink in his hand and an expression of profound melancholy on his face. Garak hesitated. That wasn’t like Julian. He looked exhausted too; probably the poor sweet fool had been working himself into a state battling some nasty contagion threatening the station. Though certainly, he hadn’t heard anything.

 

Without quite realising it, he stopped and leaned over the rail, watching as Lieutenant Dax came over to Bashir and whispered a few words in his ear, squeezed his shoulder affectionately. The doctor managed a wan smile and touched her hand briefly where it rested on his shoulder, and murmured something that looked like, ‘I suppose so’. Then Dax left too. Julian stared down at his drink contemplatively, apparently remembering it existed, then, quite distinctly, glanced off to the side – the direction of _his_ shop – then returned his attention back to his drink, swirling it idly, a slight frown creasing his smooth features. Garak watched every slight nuance of movement, trying to read him, simply admiring him. Julian sighed, his spare chest visibly rising and falling, then left his unfinished drink on the side, made his goodbyes to Ensign Farrow, and walked slowly out, head bowed. That decided him. He moved to intercept.

 

“Still can’t sleep doctor, or were you at the party?” The voice a little less casual, a little more concerned, than was usual. Julian stared at him a moment.

 

“Both, actually,” he admitted. Had he told Garak he hadn’t been sleeping? Maybe it was obvious. Garak smoothly took his arm.

 

“Let’s go for a stroll,” he suggested.

 

“All right,” Julian agreed uncertainly, really wanting to head for bed, but he allowed himself to be walked along, and, if anything, tightened the link of their arms. Garak was a great one for slight, insubstantial touches, not usually something as definite as this. He said nothing further, and Garak was uncharacteristically silent, so they ambled companionably around the promenade, which was quite deserted at this hour. He took a strange comfort in that. Indeed, he was feeling better as they walked along, finally feeling a pent-up tension ebbing from him, somehow knowing that it would be all right.

 

Garak waited until he could finally feel that Julian had relaxed before he broached the silence, which, in truth, he’d been enjoying anyway.

 

“I’m a little worried about you, doctor. I notice you’ve been wandering about by yourself at all sorts of hours lately.” He was rewarded with slightly startled smile.

 

“Have you been following me then, Garak?” Julian asked.

 

“Yes, sometimes,” Garak admitted.

 

“Sometimes?”

 

“I notice Constable Odo is starting to give me some rather suspicious looks of late. He must think I have some nefarious purpose in mind. I can’t for the life of me imagine why.” Julian laughed quietly, then pulled a little closer. Garak steered them towards the habitat ring, still at their leisurely, unforced pace. He’d approached Julian just now in a state of tension, but now felt completely relaxed, unhurried, as, apparently, did Julian himself.

 

“I just can’t seem to sleep properly,” the doctor told him, with a sigh, “I’ve succeeded in totally disrupting my normal daily rhythms.”

 

“I’ve been suffering from some disrupted rhythms myself lately,” Garak quipped lightly, “I wonder if it’s catching?”

 

“Probably,” Bashir said, with a slight smile, “At least, I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s all your fault.”

 

“Oh dear,” Garak laughed, “Well, I shall do my best to rectify the situation, if you like.” He stopped walking, and Bashir suddenly realised they were outside his own quarters.

 

“I – “ he began, clearly feeling awkward again. Garak let the wave of affection this elicited in him reach his expression. He lifted Julian’s chin very slightly with his free hand, then tapped him teasingly on the forehead.

 

“I think you’ve been worrying too much,” he told Julian, smiling, then, encouraged that the doctor didn’t back away, carefully drew him close and embraced him. Julian’s arms immediately came round him and hugged him with a deal more fervour, and he squeezed back, no longer surprised or ashamed, but only astounded at the extraordinary tenderness this man managed to evoke in him. Julian’s overwrought body was trembling ever so slightly, and he smelt like home. They stood there for an age, clinging to each other like a pair of fools, until he felt Julian begin to shift in his embrace.

 

“Get some sleep,” he whispered in his ear, before Julian suggested something else that would tempt him too much, and pressed a kiss to his forehead, drawing back.

 

“All right _doctor_ ,” Julian said, smiling warmly. Garak smiled back, and gave his upper arms a final squeeze before, regretfully, releasing him.

 

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he murmured promisingly, turning to go. Julian’s hand grazed against his.

 

“Yes,” he replied, then called softly after him, “Goodnight.”

 

Julian snapped awake with a startled jolt. Something told him it wasn’t nearly time for him to be up, but he barely registered that. He had it. He had it. It made perfect sense. Dax had got it exactly right, though she hadn’t known it.

 

“Computer, time?” he asked, almost absently, mind racing.

 

“The time is 03 hundred 30 hours,” it told him serenely. Damn. Oh well. He decided to get up anyway, got himself a tea and sat there ordering his excited thoughts, running over everything that had happened again.

 

Initially, Garak had tried not to let him know what was happening, tried not to get him involved, but he’d got himself involved anyway, so what had Garak done? Told him a lie, or a story; but what it _said_ wasn’t the point, the _reaction_ it produced was the point. Garak had told him he’d murdered nearly a hundred completely innocent civilians in the pursuance of his duty, something he, Julian Bashir, couldn’t countenance, something he _knew_ Julian would be completely horrified by. Why? To drive him away, get rid of him, get rid of this man who was seeing him at his most vulnerable and humiliated. Or rather, to see if he _would_ be driven away, despite the fact that the desperation he couldn’t quite hide belied the fact that he really wanted _not_ to be abandoned. And Julian had stayed. Well, of course he had. Maybe Garak had expected that, maybe he hadn’t; he suspected the man hadn’t been entirely conscious of what he was doing, probably hadn’t really known if he’d wanted him to stay or to go, and certainly not wanted to admit it to himself.

 

So when he stayed, what then? He told him another lie, another story – but one that was the exact opposite of the first. A story of a man who had taken pity upon and spared the life of his prisoners – _children_ too, just to cast them that much more clearly in the role of innocent victims – and had been penalised by the cruel system as a result, himself an innocent victim, even if he’d couched it in terms that suggested it was part selfishness as much as charity that had made him release them, not wanting to appear quite so…weak, perhaps. Why? Because by then he was truly scared, and truly desperate – and truly trying to hide it by being even more harsh and spiteful towards him than he had been earlier – but Julian had already earned something by staying the first time. And Garak by then absolutely needed him to stay, so he threw out something that would be bound to win his sympathy, his respect even, something to make sure he would continue to stay.

 

It was all so clear when he ignored the stories themselves and simply regarded them as expressions of Garak’s internal state of mind. And that last, in the infirmary? Garak had changed his tune slightly; no longer the tale of the villain or the victim, but simply the tale of a man who had made a mistake; not a mistake of governments and espionage, but a personal mistake. The betrayal of a friend. He’d used his own name perhaps as an indication that he felt he’d betrayed himself, but what he described was hurting his best friend – who now could only be Julian. What if, when he had asked for Julian’s forgiveness, he’d really been asking for forgiveness for the pain he’d caused him personally? Well, maybe that was a bit egocentric, but just supposing, just supposing…there was a something in it, he was sure. Garak wasn’t concerned with what Julian thought of what he did in the past at that point – because by then he knew Julian didn’t care and would and had stood by him anyway – he was concerned with the present, aware, perhaps, that he hadn’t exactly behaved very well towards him. Concerned with the future, aware, perhaps, that all he had was him, and suddenly knowing, as Julian himself had suddenly known, how much didn’t want to lose that.

 

Julian set his cup down thoughtfully. Clearly, he hadn’t been the only one who had been forced to confront his feelings and say to himself, _Yes, this man is my friend, and I care for him._ For some reason, that was so much harder for the both of them than the meaningless flirting they engaged in, indulging a mutual attraction that neither of them had acted upon, possibly because, deep down, they knew that they risked deeper feelings that meant more.

 

And now? Now, he knew he wanted both. He wondered if Garak did too; he suspected he did. The way he was acting so damn normal was a dead giveaway that his own feelings were making him feel vulnerable, and so he’d raised shields again, so to speak. Or perhaps it was more that he refused to chance the friendship. When they’d walked back together that night, he felt that they had reached a silent understanding, or even just an acknowledgement, of their friendship, and since then their lunches together had felt more like they used to, except without anything of the old, fun flirtation that used to characterise them so. Now it only remained for him to somehow reintegrate the erotic progression that had existed before and had got lost in the storm that had swallowed them up. A plan began to formulate itself.

 

Garak jolted awake with a start, immediately alert and wondering if something had happened to disturb him. He’d palmed his phaser automatically, but the room was dark and quiet. He could see nothing. Maybe it was that idiot Bolian who lived next door crashing home drunk at some unholy hour again.

 

“Computer, time?” he demanded softly.

 

“The time is 03 bloody thirty,” Julian’s voice replied, urbanely, as he stepped into view, “And as usual, it’s all your fault.”

 

“What? How on _earth_ did you manage to get in here doctor? I had no idea Starfleet doctors were so good at breaking and entering,” he said, before even thinking about it, completely astonished. Julian turned on a low light and sat in the chair by the bed, smiling.

 

“Oh, just something I overhead whilst fixing a broken tibia.”

 

“Very funny,”

 

“I thought so.” Julian was dressed in a casual shirt and trousers, still smiling maddeningly, and Garak was aware that he was sitting up in bed in only his underpants, doubtless looking mussed and confused and caught very off-guard, which wasn’t like him at all.

 

“Can I do something for you doctor?” he asked, as nonchalantly as possible, amused in spite of himself.

 

“Yes, we have to go.”

 

“Go? Go where?”

 

“To Bajor.”

 

“You’re joking.”

 

“Yes, I am.” A positive grin of absolute mischief, which was more appealing than it had any right to be.

 

“Well you’ve had your revenge,” he acknowledged, unable to quite resist smiling back, “Now what do you really want?”

 

“I want,” Julian stated precisely, “To stay here tonight. I’ve been losing so much sleep lately over you, you can damn well make it up to me.” He got up and began unbuttoning his shirt. Garak couldn’t quite believe it, and what was worse, it was _very_ distractingfrom the quick-thinking getting out of this situation required.

 

“Really Julian,” he said dryly, “You can hardly hold me responsible for the actions of your subconscious.” He couldn’t take his eyes off that glorious golden chest. It was _not_ helping.

 

“Oh yes I can,” Julian retorted, removing the shirt and casting it onto the chair. Garak thew the covers aside and began to get up, but was pushed back down with one surprisingly strong hand. Julian began removing his trousers, unhurried and still, damn the man, smiling away as if this were all perfectly normal. He gave up any pretense of disinterest and watched him, feeling heat rise all over his body.

 

“You could have just asked,” he pointed out, as Julian slipped in beside him.

 

“No I couldn’t, you would have evaded me again. I had to pounce and catch you unawares,” and he promptly did just that, pinning Garak beneath him, their bodies pressed against each other and forming a merged silhouette against the dim-lit wall, shaped as if they’d been designed so. He met those dark eyes and tried to catch his breath.

 

“Julian, under other circumstances I wouldn’t say no but – “

 

“But now that it matters, you’re going to?” Garak looked at that very determined, yet knowing, expression, and realised that he’d just lost this.

 

“I _was_ going to,” he admitted. Julian leaned down and kissed him deeply, tenderly, and he quite lost track of what he had been going to say.

 

“I do understand,” Julian was murmuring, distracted into placing light kisses across his face and neck, running his hands through his hair, “I’ve had some most….unsettling revelations myself lately, and I have my own fears, but I’m still here, with you, aren’t I?”

 

“You never left,” Garak murmured, past dissimulation, “I did notice.” He rolled them over so he could get his turn at exploration, allowing his hands to wander where they will with unfettered delight, and capturing that delicious heated mouth with his own again. “Don’t break into my quarters again,” he murmured, kissing down that smooth torso, “I nearly shot you.”

 

“Used the transporter,” Julian murmured back, hands exploring the ridges running down his flanks and sending tingles chasing after, “Chief owed me one.” Garak kissed his way back up and sucked curiously at an ear lobe, fascinated by its amazing softness. Julian turned suddenly and bit down ardently on the harder ridge along his face, sending his breath out with a sharp hiss.

 

“Ow…well, that answers that question.”

 

“What?”

 

“Tell you later, I’ll never hear the end of it now and I have other plans.” So saying he shoved his hand down between them, and grabbed onto harder flesh, Julian mirroring his action. And suddenly it was intense and heady and desperate, and they rolled repeatedly, grappling with each other and moving in awkward, gasping counterpoint. Julian pressed him down with his free hand against his shoulder and their eyes locked.

 

“Wake me up at 3:30 for anything less than this and I’m billing you,” Garak flipped him over.

 

“Break into my quarters at 3:30 for anything less than this and I’m _killing_ you.” Another turn, but – ah! matched again! – and they were side by side, arms and gazes locked. Julian gulped a breath of air, beads of sweat standing on his forehead and sticking his hair in damp shocks.

 

“Sit at lunch with me tomorrow and pretend the past week never happened again, I swear I’ll have your hide made into a Bajoran handbag.” _You don’t have to tell me the truth, you just have to tell me._ Garak grunted, hissed his retort, feeling small hard nails digging in a five-pointed star in his neck.

 

“Forsake me for a virus or a pretty behind and I’ll send your ears to a Ferengi dissection class.” _You don’t always have to stay, you just have to come back._ And abruptly they tumbled over the edge in near-unison, pushing apart with the force of release, then collapsing in upon each other again. They lay there, stickened and breathing in shudders, for a small age.

 

Julian suddenly laughed. “Well, so long as we know where we stand with each other.” And then he laughed too, couldn’t help it, laughed and didn’t stop for the longest while. He had forgotten what it felt like to laugh simply for joy, wasn’t sure that he’d ever known. When he stopped Julian was smiling at him. He stooped for a lingering kiss.

 

“Had to do something to wipe that smile you’ve been wearing since you came in,” he murmured, suddenly abashed. It didn’t work. He gave up, and rolled onto his back, grinning into the dark, surprisingly warm though the sheets appeared to have escaped to the relative safety of the floor. He pulled a nice warm human onto him, just in case, and, hearing not a murmur, glanced down to see Julian lying there with eyes closed, quite, quite asleep.

 

_Seek Love in the pity of other’s woe_

_In the gentle relief of another’s care_

_In the darkness of night and the winter’s snow_

_In the naked and outcast,_

_Seek Love there._


End file.
